


Death Takes a Holiday

by elwinglyre



Category: Death Takes a Holiday (1934), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And one bed, Angel/Demon Sex, Death falls in love, Drunk angel and demon, F/M, First Kiss, High Angel and Demon, Humor, Leading to hot sex, M/M, Sexual Tension, and plays matchmaker, to an angel and demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-06-25 22:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19754959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: Since the Fall, Death has been busy, busy, busy. No rest, no time off. Hardly fair—or so thinks Aziraphale who gets Crowley on board to convince Death to take a holiday. And Death isn't too hard to convince. Having Death owe you a favor may certainly come in handy one day.What happens when Death finds his heart and decides: what the world needs now, is love sweet love? He plays matchmaker!Thank you to Kongeriket for graciously volunteering to beta this story. I deeply appreciate it!





	1. Live and Let Die

The first time Death gave Crowley a hard time was the Great Flood, or as Noah called it "The day the music died."

Death was unhappy.

"FIFTY DAYS AND FIFTY NIGHTS IS TOO LONG."

"You'll only be busy for a few days," said Crowley, a touch testy. "After that, it's just clean up. A body here, a body there."

"STILL TOO LONG."

"I've been given permission to take it down to forty days and forty nights, but that's the final offer," said the demon.

"EXPLAIN."

"I can't. I'm only the messenger."

Well, Crowley wasn't supposed to be the actual messenger. No use trying to explain to Death why Crowley was delivering the message instead. That was meant to be Aziraphale, but Crowley owed him a favor for helping him with the whole getting untangled from that apple tree business.

While the whole process of taking a message to Death was repugnant to Aziraphale, who from In the Very Beginning would never willingly deliver anything to Death, Crowley didn't mind that much. On the other hand, no angel willingly wants to talk to Death. Death can be such a downer.

Unfortunately, when the time came to speak directly to Death, the angel drew the short straw. When Death didn't want to be bothered, Aziraphale came to Crowley for help.

Death didn't like to listen to anyone, especially not angels. On occasion, he would listen to demons. That Death doesn't know which direction the machinations originated didn't matter to Crowley. As far as the demon was concerned, what Death doesn't know won't hurt him—if anything could hurt Death.

Crowley didn't much care for Death's company either. But he'd found over time that he could tolerate about anything except maybe cotton candy and ABBA.

The second time Aziraphale was ordered to deliver a message to Death, he asked Crowley nicely to help him out because "He'd done such a fine job the first time."

This time, Crowley decided he'd require something in return. What it was, he'd decide later.

"Why does it always have to be about you?" Aziraphale pouts. "Couldn't you do it because we're friends?"

"Don't even say that. We're co-conspirators. It's a needs must thing."

"You say that, but I know you really care."

Crowley sighed a sigh of five-hundred years. "Very well. But only because speaking to Death puts me in Beelzebub's favor. For some reason it impresses the demon lord and its throng of minions. You'd think all there was to life is Death to the Lord of Darkness and his sycophants."  
  
"I don't know why they keep passing this task to me. He has such horrendous breath."

"What do you care? You've rarely had to interact with him," Crowley pointed out.

"So that's a yes!" Aziraphale clapped his hands. "Thank you!"

"I'll be sure to collect my favor before the turn of the century."

When Crowley passed on the message, Death was not pleased. Not that Crowley cared.

"A PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS? ALL I ASK FOR IS EFFICIENCY AND WHAT DO I GET? LOCUSTS!"  
  
"Being Death, you should be more patient," Crowley said. "More time makes for more suffering. I would've thought you'd enjoy that."

Death looked at Crowley with empty eyes.

"SUFFERING DOES NOT MATTER. A FAST OR SLOW DEATH DOES NOT MATTER. I ONLY CARE THAT I MUST WAIT."

"Right. I'll be sure to pass that message on. Faster death, less wait time."

Which Crowley does. To Aziraphale.

The third time Aziraphale came to Crowley to pass on a message to Death, Aziraphale knew his friend might be reluctant. In fact, as they walked side-by-side on the grounds near Windsor Castle, Crowley thought Aziraphale was there just for a visit.

"It is lovely here. The renovations are going well, I trust," the angel said.

"Splendid! His Highness is well beyond his budget. Squeezing ransoms from battle victories, raising taxes. The countryside is aflame with angry mobs over his luxurious furnishings."

"You must be pleased. Although I thought you were done with politics after the last messy business with the Crusades—or so you told me. Wouldn't you like something else to keep you busy?"

"That can't be why you're here. And here I thought it was just because you missed me," Crowley winked.

" _Always_. But I thought it best to give you a head's up regarding the Black Death," said Aziraphale.

"Thoughtful of you," said Crowley, who was becoming a tad suspicious of Aziraphale's motives.

"The south wall is an achievement, don't you think? But that's not why you're here. Wait. You want another favor." Crowley removed his googles and looked Aziraphale over carefully. "Oh, no. Not that again. I'm not doing it this time."

" _Please_ , Crowley."

"Don't you give me that face. It will toughen you up facing Death. You never know, Armagedeon might be around the corner."

"I'd rather not toughen up," Aziraphale shivered. "I'm not the warrior type, and you're so much more suited to talk to Death. You're a demon. Supposedly you're evil, not that I believe it for a second."

"There's no _supposedly_! Shut it! I am to evil."

"You do seem to enjoy your...little escapades."

" _Escapades_? Chaos, mayhem, destruction. Those are not _escapades_!"

"You do always like to get out of work."

"It's not the work—it's reporting back I hate. Blah, blah, blah. _Yes, your Dark Lord, no your Dark Lord_." He crossed his arms. The demon fully intended to refuse his friend—er, co-conspirator.

Aziraphale continued to hop after a Crowley who was becoming more agitated. The demon always tended to jog more than walk when upset. This wasn't how Aziraphale intended to convince Crowley to take a message to Death.

"Will you slow down!" said Aziraphale. Tripping on a branch, Crowley caught him by the arm.

"Why, halo!" smiled Crowley and pulled Aziraphale closer.

The angel smiled kindly, batting his eyes. Remembering he was with a demon, he straightened his back and stepped away, his legs a bit shaky from the embrace. "My point is that sometimes I think Death doesn't much like his job."

"Paa! Death loves his job. He just never gets a break." Crowley stared at the angel and stopped in front of a marble bench under a large oak.

"You've had your share of time off over the years," the angel said and plopped down on the bench. He patted the spot next to him, encouraging Crowley to sit. "This 100 Years War thing would have ended long ago if you hadn't kept stretching it out with trips to Paris and the like."

"All work and no play..." Crowley raised an eyebrow and took a seat next to him. "That's Death's problem. He never takes a vacation. I'd be sick of it all as well."

"He'd certainly be in a better mood if he did take a vacation," said Aziraphale.

"He can't take one. What would happen if he did? People wouldn't die."

"And that would be bad?" Crowley scooted closer on the bench to the angel.

"Well, yes it would. No one would go to Heaven."

"Or Hell. It's getting too crowded there anyway." Crowley looked into the sky. "I suppose there's still plenty of elbow room in Heaven."

"Yes. And loads of clouds," the angel said. He joined Crowley in looking up.

"Boring I bet."

"What _would_ Death do on a holiday?"

"I don't know, what does anyone do? Buy a new shroud, attend public executions, pull wings off flies."

Aziraphale winced. "Maybe after Death finishes with this Black Plague, we could help him out and get him that much-needed rest he needs." He reached over and patted Crowley's knee.

Crowley frowns. "Nah-h. I'll deliver the message, but I'm not helping Death relax."

"It might be handy to have Death owe us one. Think about it."

Crowley did think about it. Until January 1978. It took Barry Gibb singing "Stayin' Alive" in falsetto for Crowley to decide that it might be a good idea to give Death a holiday.


	2. Saturday Night Fever

"You are coming with me. We do this together or not at all," Crowley said to Aziraphale.  
  
The angel sighed. "You’re a big humbug, you do know that? I suppose if I have to get in the car with you, I will."  
  
"You suppose correctly. Get in, Aziraphale," he ordered. The demon jumped in behind the wheel of his black Bentley and caressed the steering wheel with his hands.   
  
"Just exactly how do we find Death?" the angel said, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Ple-ease! It's easy. Go where death is most likely to happen." Crowley pulled out into traffic, horns blaring.  
  
Aziraphale blinked rapidly. "That would be in this car with you."  
  
"Ha. Ha. Ha. That would be hospital or battle-field. Since there's no battle-fields currently in London, I'd say we head to Middlesex Hospital."  
  
"That would be my second choice," the angel said, gripping tightly to the seat as the Bentley took a corner. The angel smelled rubber. The tires must be melting.  
  
"I do believe you go too fast for me, Crowley."  
  
Crowley pushed his sunglasses down and looked over at the angel. "Really?!" he exclaimed, then took the next corner faster.  
  
Aziraphale's eyes grew big. "I do say...I like those new spectacles. They suit you." Despite the distraction, the demon refused to slow down.   
  
At St. Thomas' Hospital, it proved to be a more difficult task then Aziraphale anticipated. They waited for some time, but no Death.   
  
"You see, Death must work fast," Crowley explained. "Get in and out, then on to the next."  
  
"I see..." But the angel looked confused. "No, I don't."  
  
"Death isn't easy to pin down. Either way, I believe our wait has ended. The man in this room is at Death's door. That was a joke, but not really." Crowley motioned behind him. The door opened slowly to a group of people huddled around the bed of a young man.   
  
"My, oh, my," said the angel.   
  
Crowley poked Aziraphale in the shoulder and pointed down the hospital hallway. "Oh, looky. Here comes Death."  
  
Aziraphale coyly waved at him. And yes, the angel waved his antique-lace handkerchief. "Oh, Death?! May we have a word?"   
  
"WHO INTERRUPTS ME. NOT YOU AGAIN, CRAWLY."   
  
"That's Crowley now. We need a word."  
  
"IT ALWAYS ENDS THE SAME. WORK, WORK, WORK. WHAT IS IT NOW? NUCLEAR REACTOR MELTDOWN? METEOR? VOLCANIC ERUPTION?"  
  
"None of those." Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. "We actually have a proposition for you."  
  
"WE? EXPLAIN WE. AND HURRY. SOMEONE IS DYING TO MEET ME."  
  
"Really, Death. You need to get someone to write better jokes for you," Crowley said. "That aside, we think you're being overworked. Any angel or self-respecting demon can tell that's the case. We're here to give you some time off."  
  
"TIME OFF?"  
  
"A holiday," Aziraphale said. "Of course, you'll need a body to occupy—a host as it were. The man in the room you are about to visit looks to be a grand specimen...don't you think Crowley?"  
  
"Yes. Yes, he might work." Crowley tapped his lips. "Late thirties, athletic. Handsome in a rugged sense. Looks a lot like Marlon Brando. He'd make an excellent host."  
  
"YOU ARE THE CHOSEN REPRESENTATIVES SENT TO FULFILL MY RESPONSIBILITIES?" Death looked first at one, then the other (or moved his head in their general direction. It was hard to tell with no eyes).   
  
Neither Crowley and Aziraphale responded. Instead, Crowley acted bored, and Aziraphale, put upon.   
  
It was at that pivotal moment that Death drew this conclusion: that Aziraphale and Crowley were part of a combined effort between Heaven and Hell to grant him some well-needed time off. He'd been at it night and day since Adam took that bite of apple. Of course Death jumped at the chance.   
  
"HOW LONG?"  
  
Aziraphale bounced on his toes. "A week, I should think."  
  
Not wanting to miss this opportunity, Death placed one boney hand on Crowley's head and the other boney hand on Aziraphale's. "I, DEATH, DO HEREBY PASS MY DUTIES TO THIS DEMON AND THIS ANGEL FOR SEVEN DAYS AND SEVEN NIGHTS."   
  
Poof! Death dissolved into a black cloud that amassed slowly and rose up to the ceiling and through the door to the young man's room. The demon and angel followed behind. There, the black cloud hovered above the bed, then slowly descended. Down, down, into the man's body below, with the family and others surrounding the man's death bed not knowing what had just transpired.  
  
"That was creepy," Aziraphale said with a shiver.   
  
With a jerk, the young man in the bed sat straight up and faced the angel and demon, who, to those in the room, had just appeared.   
  
"You are to begin my duties," Death said.  
  
"Oh my God," said his grandmother sitting next to the bed. She stared down at her grandson, confusion creasing her face. "Who are you?"   
  
"It's a miracle!" cried the man's mother.   
  
"Get Miss Sparks!" cried his sister as she spun around and bumped into the angel. "Why, hello. I don't believe we've met."  
  
"And you're not going to. Please, just ignore us," said Aziraphale.  
  
"You sound normal." Crowley looked over his sunglasses at Death. "I was expecting you to have the same voice. The one in all caps."  
  
"Begin your duties with the woman in the next room," said Death to Crowley. He pointed his no-longer bony finger at the next hospital room.  
  
"What is going on here?" said the father. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"  
  
"They are an angel and demon," said Death, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Sent to me to do my work." He gets out of bed.  
  
"You aren't our Jack," said the grandmother, who was a very observant woman.  
  
"How do we do it?" the angel asked.   
  
"I generally lay my hand on them for a more personal touch or wave my arm for groups," said Death. "Then they expire."  
  
"And how do we know who?"  
  
"You will be taken to your destination."  
  
"Final destination. Yes, of course," Crowley said. They backed out of the room.  
  
And that was how Death entered the body of Jackson Collin Twodicks on Saturday, February 11, 1978, and how two opposing immortal beings became the disseminators of death on Planet Earth for seven days and seven nights.  
  
All because of Disco.


	3. Only the Good Die Young

_Day ONE_

"No, _you_ lay your hand on her," Aziraphale directed as he and Crowley stepped into the room of grieving people. "I'm an angel. We shouldn't do such things."

"You big baby. Do it." Crowley nudged the angel toward the bed. 

"People are crying," the angel whimpered. "You can't expect me to do it while they're all crying."

"People always cry. That's what they _do_." Crowley threw his arms out. 

"Yes, well, so do angels. I cry. And so do demons. I saw you cry when Bambi's mother died, or did you forget we saw that film together?" 

"I told you, a bug flew in my eye," he snapped. 

"In a movie theatre?" Aziraphale thought it rather cute how the demon sniffled and sobbed that day. They should go to the cinema more often. "You are such a liar." 

"Angels should not kill. We're the good guys," Aziraphale sighed. "This is a one person job. Death did a fine job alone. You can do it." 

"Oh, no. You're helping. That was the deal."

The dithering continued back and forth on for a good hour and neither of them touched her. Instead, Aziraphale touched her and cured her. 

"You can't do that!" said Crowley. "That's cheating." 

"Since when have you ever cared about that?" 

Miss Agatha Magnolia Crance received a new lease on life that day. The doctors were befuddled as to how her congenital heart disease was reversed. As for the rest of the day, Crowley told Aziraphale, no more miracles. The needed to do Death's job, after all. 

With every soul Aziraphale visited, he simply couldn't. No laying on of hands and no arms waved. Everyone lived. Even Crowley slacked a bit toward the end of the day and went to only waving his arms. 

"I don't like how we pop about from place to place with no warning," the angel said later at Crowley's flat. "Poof! I'm here, then poof! I'm there. I accept that it's much more efficient to be miraculously conveyed to the soon-to-be dearly departed's location, but it puts my head in a tizzy." 

"Quit your whining. Everything puts your head in a tizzy. Besides, what are you complaining about? You haven't done _anything_. Do you think they're not going to notice up there?" Crowley said, pointing up. 

Of course those Upstairs (and Down) realized. 

As did BBC, NBC, the London and New York Times along with every media outlet in the world. Headlines screamed about "The day no one died." 

\--------------- 

_Day TWO_

At seven the next morning, Aziraphale was visited at breakfast in Crowley's flat. A shaft of blue light shot down from the ceiling into the room, illuminating the table where the angel sat. 

"This is your fault," said a voice from above. 

"Excuse me. To whom am I speaking?" asked Aziraphale warily. 

"We are the Metatron." 

"Ah, hello. Pleased to meet you. I'm Aziraphale." 

"We know." 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He had heard about this Metatron. An entity spokesman for God. Not such a pleasant way to start one's day, he thought, coming to visit him, especially this early. It didn't bode well. 

He put on his best smile and acted nonchalant. He buttered his toast. "Would you like a bite of breakfast?" he offered. 

"No thank you," said the voice. "We spoke to Death. He informed us that _he_ is on vacation." 

"Isn't that nice!" the angel said brightly. "Everyone needs time to relax." 

"Death shouldn't need time to relax. He's Death." 

"I don't know. It's been non-stop, one death after another since time began." 

"Death knows what's required of him." 

"Seems stressful to me. Isn't it in everyone's best interest that Death gets a breather?" 

"Souls are on hold because of him. He can't just take a few days off," the voice said, slightly irritated. 

"Surely even you get time off?" 

The blue light intensified. Probably the wrong thing to say, Aziraphale thought. 

"He was also in a new body and eating bread and butter pudding. With a spoon," the voice said disgustedly. 

"What's wrong with that? Everyone likes bread and butter pudding." 

He waited for the voice to reply. Moments passed, and when the voice failed to return with an answer, Aziraphale couldn't help but fill in the silence. 

"I don't see why he can't take a holiday. He deserves some sort of reward, don't you think? All those years of collecting souls, he's never asked anything of us. He could simply stop, you know."

"It is decreed then. Death shall have a brief holiday." 

Aziraphale blinked. _That wasn't so difficult_ , Aziraphale thought. And he handled it all by himself without Crowley's assistance, thank you very much. He hadn't needed to resort to threats. He was thoroughly relieved and took a deep angel breath. _Imagine, Death on strike?_ He thought. _But wouldn't it be fun to see Death picketing outside the gates of Heaven and Hell._

"You can decree all you like, but I rather think Death does what he wants." 

"Until Death returns, you must perform Death's tasks. Without fail," ordered the voice.

"All of them?" 

"All of them." 

"Even children?" 

"All of them."

The angel leaned back in the chair and sighed. "That ruined my appetite." He placed his knife down on the table, disappointment hitting him. He was about to spread strawberry preserves on his toast. He did so like strawberry preserves.

"You haven't done well undertaking Death's business." 

"Well, it is rather difficult business isn't it? Going from one place to another, blinking souls out of bodies and sorting them." 

"And why are you in a demon's residence eating poached eggs and toast?" asked the voice.

It was at that moment, when Aziraphale was brushing crumbs off of his lap and searching for a plausible explanation that Crowley conveniently stepped out from the other room. He'd been listening from his bedroom and thought it best to intervene at this point. A lie was necessary, and he knew Aziraphale wouldn't lie. Not outright, although he might skim over some important details. 

"Death asked us both to take on his duties," Crowley explained. "Makes sense don't you think to have both a demon and an angel? Death is of neither Hell or Heaven yet he serves both sides." He thrust his hands into his robe pockets and raised an eyebrow. 

"Very well," said the voice to Aziraphale. "You may work with this demon on this one task. But be advised that further fraternizing won't be tolerated. Now get busy, both of you. You're behind." 

The shaft of light faded. 

"Hello?" Aziraphale said softly. "Still there? Hmm. I guess they've gone." 

"I knew you needed a hand," the demon said, brushing his mustache with his finger. "Mmm, toast!" 

"Thank you for that, Crowley. I simply didn't want to lie to the voice of God that this whole vacation was our idea." 

"Anytime," Crowley said, picking up a slice of Aziraphale's toast and his knife. He slathered preserves on it and took a big, gooey bite. 

"What do you think he meant by further fraternizing?" asked Aziraphale innocently. 

"Oh, having breakfast together...sharing rides...sitting in the park eating lollies and ice cream." 

"Oh. That." The angel's wide smile illuminated the flat as he watched Crowley take another bite of his toast. “You have crumbs in you mustache. Why did you ever grow that?”

“I like it. Don’t you?”

Aziraphale kept silent and shook his head in displeasure.

\-------------------- 

"We really should get to collecting souls, but I do so love your flat," Aziraphale said as he wandered around the flat. 

Crowley sat and watched him from his favorite chair. 

"It's so neat and spacious. And your plants are just lovely! Speaking to the Metatron was so taxing on my nerves. Being with your plants is so relaxing." 

Aziraphale stepped up to the largest plant on the floor, a large schefflera next to the window, and Crowley stood up and joined him. 

"Yes, you are, you dear little thing!" The leaves fluttered up to the angel's hand like a puppy coaxing its master to rub its ears. The angel stroked its shiny foliage. If a plant could bark and wag its tail, it would have. 

Crowley back stiffened and his jaw clenched. "Stop being nice to them," he said through his teeth. "They'll expect it." 

"That's rather a sad attitude to take. Everything likes to be touched. Even you." 

Crowley scowled at him. Then it happened., Iin a blink, Crowley disappeared. Poof! 

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale said. "I do believe we're being called to duty." And in a blink, he was also transported to his first required assignment of the day.


	4. (Don’t Fear) The Reaper

_ Day TWO: Evening  _

Crowley was tired to death...or of death, depending on one's perspective. 

He was finishing up at a vehicular accident when Death came to call. 

"I really didn't expect to see you. At least not so soon," said Crowley. "I don't see that you have anything to complain about from me. I'm doing a bang up job."

"That's not why I'm here," said Death, but he sounded more like Jack Twodicks. 

Death merely glanced over the scene. He teetered on the pavement before Crowley, weight shifting from one leg to another. 

"Why are you? Here?" Crowley asked.

"I have a problem."

"A problem? You're on a bloody holiday. You're supposed to be taking a break from your problems."

Crowley was perplexed. This was not the Death he remembered.

"A young woman seems to be...in love with me."

"In love? I see. Just tell her you're not interested."

"But what if I am?"

"Death, you don't sound like yourself."

"Of course I don't! I'm not myself! Look at me! I leak and expel gas. I do this thing called laughing. It's despicable. I also have this pain," he pointed. "Right there, in my elbow. I was told it's from playing tennis. Playing tennis!"

"Well, yes. Humans do that. At least some of them play tennis. The rest giggle, fart, and such. You've laughed before, haven't you? At least maniacally? If not, you really need to lighten up. You really do need this holiday." 

Crowley walked Death over to a bench and sat him down. This wasn't a thing Crowley would normally do, sit Death down for a talk, but like Bob Dylan said, "The times, they are a changin’."

"Part of this Jack, his memories, are still inside this head," Death explained. "I do not like that."

"That would be unsettling." 

At first Crowley thought, he could do this, he could advise Death. Then he realized, what advice could he give Death about the human condition? He knew their vices, their weaknesses. As for love? He knew absolutely nothing other than people often did pretty horrible things in its name. He didn't know about that mushy, gushy stuff that Aziraphale waxed on about. 

Crowley knew only what he'd observed of these things, and how to secure souls for  _ his _ master. But Death had no master. Death was his own...man? He was now at least. 

_ Right.  _ He needed to push on. 

"So, about this young woman?" Crowley asked. "She's attractive, single?" 

"Come and see," Death said decisively. "You have fifteen minutes of downtime." 

He doesn't want to accept Death's invitation, but it's much preferable to the alternative. 

In a blink, Crowley found himself in a hallway in front of flat number 42, somewhere in Sussex.

"Her name is Tenley Sparks," Death explained. "That's her." 

Death pointed to a woman walking out of the elevator at the end of the hall. She began to walk toward them. Her arms were filled with bags of groceries and swinging a fuschia pink purse. Miss Sparks was not beautiful in the classical sense, but a woman who was comfortable in her own body. Not tall and willowy, instead petite with full hips that fit snug in her jeans. 

She may not have flowing blonde locks or big blue eyes that framed lush lashes, but her hazel eyes sparkled as she studied the two who studied her. Crowley knew at once there was something behind those eyes that Aziraphale would immediately point out: kindness.

She also sprinkled joy about like so much faerie dust. The hallway sparkled around her as her lips curved up. The air bounced as she walked along with the thick waves of her chestnut hair. 

She radiated something from within that even Crowley recognized as irresistible. It made Crowley a tad suspicious. No human could do this. 

"Isn't she perfect," Death gasped and clutched his chest.

Crowley rolled his eyes. Something had gone terribly wrong. One of two things had happened: Jack Twococks had taken possession of Death instead of the other way around, or this Tenley Sparks was not of this world.

Either way Death was a puddle of love. He was practically vomiting rainbows and little paper hearts. Crowley wouldn't be surprised if Death started collecting unicorn miniatures and stuffed animals. 

For whatever reason or by whatever power, Death was now in love. Death needed a holiday, but Crowley acknowledged that this could seriously complicate things. 

"Does she know who you really are?"

"You jest! Of course she doesn't."

"Telling her you're Death might do the trick. Or saying something like 'you jest' because  _ no one _ , I mean,  _ no one _ speaks that way. No normal human that I know of says it anymore, and Death? He'd never say it."

"You are certain?"

"See what I mean? People don't talk like that unless they're, you know,  _ odd _ . They say,  _ are you sure _ . Now, listen. I think this Jack what's-his-name is influencing you a tad too much."

Crowley didn't have time to elaborate further. She stood in front of them, handing Death one of the bags of groceries. "Is this the new friend you were telling me about?" she asked, juggling the groceries to open her purse and take out her key.

"Yes. His name is Crowley."

"Pleased to meet you, Crowley. I'll make some tea. It's been such an exciting day." She dangled the key out in front of her then unlocked the door.

"I can imagine. Thinking your boyfriend is dead and then having him come back to life. That doesn't happen every day," Crowley said.

"Jack was  _ obviously _ misdiagnosed."

"Obviously," Crowley agreed, still standing at the doorway.

"Why don't you come in and have some tea with us?" 

"Oh, I'm afraid I can't stay. I have appointments," said Crowley. "Impossible to break them."

"That's too bad." 

"Wait," said Death, who sounds more and more human with every word. "Don't leave yet. I'll go set the groceries down. Tenley, would you mind? I need to speak to Crowley for a moment."

"Sure, luv." 

Crowley watched them both disappear into the flat, mouth agape. Death asked for permission. Politely. The couple returned a few moments later and a bit flushed. She stretched up on her toes and kissed her lover (aka Death) on the lips. Death blushed a wicked bright red. She seemed to glitter. 

Death hesitated, then stepped outside the door with Crowley. 

"This isn't right," said Crowley after Miss Sparks had shut the door. Yet...it  _ was _ Death's holiday, not Crowley's. Shouldn't Death have a good time? This whole holiday seemed to be working. Death was enjoying himself.

"I live here," Death said. "I mean Jack does.  _ With her _ ."

"Lucky dog!" Crowley gave Death a playful punch on his shoulder.

"What am I going to do?"

"I am pretty certain you will figure it all out. It's one of those human biological urges that's rather pleasurable."

Death blinked at him, dumbfounded. 

"You go in, you do the job, and let human nature take its course." Now that was advice that he could give!

It was a true Polaroid moment. In fact, Crowley wished he had a camera to capture the look on Death's face as he realized what he was supposed to do. 

Crowley pushed Death toward the door. 

"You'll be fine. Enjoy yourself."

Death opened the door and stumbled inside. Before closing it behind him, he stopped.

"I've never thanked anyone before..."

Crowley grimaced and shook his head. "Don't..."

If he hadn't been before this, Crowley was now certain: Death really needed to get laid.


	5. Another One Bites the Dust

_ Day THREE: Early Morning _

Over the centuries, Death had never concerned himself with entrances or exits. He went from one place to another in an instant, and he did it whenever and wherever he liked. No one saw him. Not really. Oh, they thought they'd seen a shadow go across their path or the light dim in a room, but never Death. The human mind was a tricky thing. It seemed humans hated the idea of the Grim Reaper so much that their minds refused to acknowledge him. He'd block someone's path, and they'd walk around him, but they still didn't see him. Often, even the people whose very souls he was collecting refused to acknowledge Death was there. 

The only ones to see him were those whose souls he collected, and they were terrified of him. Even most angels and demons were uncomfortable near him. 

The other three Horsemen didn't seem to be bothered by him, but they weren't going to go out partying with him. Not that Death would go out and party. Ever. The point was that no one ever wanted to be around him willingly, and for the most part he had never cared. Until now.

Suddenly, it seemed to bother Death that no one liked to be around him. 

Death had kept to himself and never cared about pleasantries such as "How do you do," or "Pardon?" Being a skeleton with no vocal cords had its advantages. He certainly never needed to seek anyone's advice (especially not about love). 

It never mattered before that Death never understood angels or demons. He never understood humans since all he needed to do was pick up their souls and deliver them. That was before this holiday. Before Tenley Sparks.

Death hated that he needed guidance, but he knew nothing of this human world. He knew nothing of love. Crowley and this Aziraphale had been among humans since The Beginning. They are in love. They should be able to help him.

\---------------------------

_ Day THREE: Lunchtime  _

"You really don't like it?" Crowley said, brushing his mustache with his finger 

"I didn't say that."

"Of course you didn't. You're too polite to say it."

"It's just...I know you're trying to keep up with the times, but there's some things that I don't care for. One of them is facial hair." 

"I always assumed it was one of those rules. You know one of those 'Thou shalt not's.'" 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and poured himself more tea. 

"Death keeps interrupting me," said Aziraphale, his eyes wide in exasperation. "He's popped in on me twice this morning already."

"Twice? Hmm," Crowley scratched his head. "He hasn't interrupted me once today."

"Yes, well I can see how he might prefer advice on matters of the heart from an angel rather than a demon—even if that demon is you," Arizaphale said, picking up his tea cup and taking a sip. 

"Pardon? It seems to me it had more to do with S-E-X."

"Really, Crowley. You don't need to spell it, I know very well what it is. But you're wrong. It's about love. Death told me so himself and..." 

_ POOF!  _ Death appeared—or rather Death in Jack Twodick's body—right between Crowley's rubber plant and fig tree. 

"You!" Aziraphale said, exasperation in his voice. "Not again. I spoke to you not an hour ago."

"I did it," he said breathlessly to Aziraphale. "I made love to her." 

"You didn't need to report back," the angel said, a touch shocked. 

"It was magical." Death—or Death in Jack's body—twirled around dancing. 

"What!" Crowley shouted, grabbing Death, by the front of his shirt. "Stop that! You'll excite the plants." Crowley carefully maneuvered him to the white leather sofa. 

Once seated, Death knees bounced in excitement and his hands twitched in his lap. "It was earth shaking. Better than snapping my fingers."

"Snapping your fingers?" Aziraphale asked.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Sometimes I snap my fingers when I have a lot to do. It came in handy during the Great Plague of London."

"Right," Crowley said. "I'll keep that in mind when I have mass death and destruction to clean up. But what's more important is this: What do you think of my mustache?" His finger automatically brushed over it as he spoke.

"I wish you would quit petting it like it was your long-lost dog," said Aziraphale.

Death frowned. "It looks like a dead caterpillar—just laying there on your upper lip."

Aziraphale chuckled and covered his mouth.

"Why should I listen to either of you. Especially you, Death. You're behaving like a silly school girl in love."

"That would be boy," Death corrected.

"Boy, girl, does it matter?" Aziraphale said, sitting down next to Death. "I think it's sweet."

"SWEET!" Death jumped up from the sofa. "I AM NOT SWEET."

"That's more like the Death I know and..." said Crowley. 

"Love?" Death moaned and his face visibly paled as he collapsed back down with a thud into the white leather cushions of the couch. 

"I was going to say 'know and expect' but now that you mention it..."

"It's not me she loves," Death said forlornly. "It's this Jack human."

Crowley thought he sounded like a love-sick sot while Aziraphale thought he sounded rather endearing.

"Tenley," Death moaned. "She's confused with the change in me, but I can't stop dictating orders. She doesn't take kindly to that aspect of my...personality."

"Harvesting souls might also prove to be a complication down the road," Crowley said.

"She attributes the change in me to my  _ near death experience _ ."

"Near Death?" Aziraphale repeated with a giggle. 

But Crowley did more than giggle—he convulsed with laughter at those words. What began as a snicker, turned to a cackle, and ended as howls and shrieks. Aziraphale and Death—er, Jack—watched him in stunned silence.

Finally, Crowley wiped his eyes. 

Death stared at Crowley, wonder filling him. "I never experienced a laugh like that," he said. "Is that a unique characteristic of demons?"

While it was true that most demons laugh, it's almost always at another's expense such as at humiliation or pain and always with malice. The Three Stooges were Beezelbub and Hastur's particular favorites for this very reason. Most angels rarely belly laugh and fail to find physical comedy funny. They do, however, claim they enjoy high brow humor whilst secretly watching Golden Girls. 

"No, humans also laugh like that," Aziraphale said. "And not all demons laugh like Crowley. He has a special sense of humor. Oh! Remember The Battle of the Rabbits?" Aziraphale giggled and poked the demon in the shoulder. 

"I don't recall any such battle," said Death.

"That's because no one died," Crowley said with a grin. 

"Not even a bunny died!" Aziraphale chimed in. "I still remember Napoleon hopping mad he couldn't defeat a horde of rabbits."

"Napoleon? Why haven't I heard of this?" Death said.

"Ol' Napoleon thought they'd turn their little bunny tails and run. Instead 3,000 rabbits charged. Crowley and I never laughed so hard."

" _ Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting wabbits. Ha, ha, ha."  _

A bewildered Death sat stunned at what seemed to be a complete personality transformation in Crowley. 

"I see you don't understand," Aziraphale explained. "That is what is called an impersonation. It's where someone mimics the voice of another.”

"But what was that voice?"

"Oh, that. It was Elmer Fudd," Crowley said.

"Elmer Fudd? Was he a conquerer or ruler?" asked Death, perplexed.

"He's a cartoon character. You know,  _ cartoons _ ?" Crowley asked. "I can turn some on now. Zira and I usually watch them when we're bored. You'll really love Bugs Bunny."

Death gave Crowley the usual vacant-eyed stare, only now they were blue instead of empty sockets. 

"You're on a holiday," Crowley huffed. "That's when people go places. Do things."

"I don't need to visit places. I've already seen the entire world."

"At least watch some telly," Crowley said, pointing to his. 

"Being human  _ is  _ the holiday," Death stated. 

"After doing your job for a day, I'd say that being human is a refreshing change," Aziraphale shuddered. 

"Love is an interesting emotion that these humans have," said Death. "Every benevolent or malevolent spirit should experience this feeling."

Crowley frowned. 

"What?" said Death, confused at his expression. "You two  _ are _ in a relationship."

"No!" said Aziraphale. "Well, not in that kind of relationship. We're friends. Not in love, no."

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, his pupils mere slits (or more slitted than usual) and lips thin.

"Angels  _ love _ . We don't fall  _ in _ love," Aziraphale said, clarifying his position as much to Crowley as he was to Death.

It seemed to Death that he was much more observant than Crowley or Aziraphale—at least in this human body. The way the angel and demon looked at one another. The way Crowley was strangely silent when the angel said he wasn't "in" love. The pet name Crowley called the angel, what was it? Zira? And the sheer fact that an angel and demon seemed to cohabit this flat. That had to mean something more than...

Death left. He needed to get back to Tenley. She wanted to go to the afternoon matinee to see a talking movie called  _ Star Wars _ . 

Afterward, he had something planned for his holiday. Maybe Tenley could lend a hand.


	6. The Great Gig in the Sky

_Day THREE: Late evening_

It was a quiet night, and along the terrace walk of Battersea Park, an angel and a demon walked side-by-side along the Thames. To those few people out who passed, the two appeared as close friends (or lovers) out for an evening stroll before retiring. 

"It's nice to relax a bit," Aziraphale said, stopping to look at the Chelsea Bridge. "I didn't think I'd ever appreciate Death, but after a few days of doing his work, I understand why he became so...detached."

Crowley understood Death's need to become detached far too well. After Aziraphale's remark about being in a relationship, Crowley reflected on feelings he'd pushed away and ignored. 

"I do believe I'm finally getting used to this popping about. It's a lot more convenient. It's one of the few things that I'm enjoying this week." 

Aziraphale also thought he didn't miss Crowley's driving, but he didn't want to hurt the demon's feelings. He was still moping about, most probably regarding Aziraphale not liking his silly mustache. Even now Crowley seemed quiet and subdued to the angel. He stood, squeezing his fingers into his trouser pockets. They were so tight, Aziraphale wondered how he even put them on. He had to have used some sort of demonic magic, the angel reasoned. 

"Maybe we shouldn't encourage him," Crowley said, turning to the angel. 

"What?" he asked and faced him. 

"Encourage him—Death...Jack...to spend time with that woman," Crowley said, looking up at the London night sky. Tonight was clear and the full moon reflected off the Thames. 

"Whatever’s the harm in that?" 

"Falling in love is the harm. What if he decides he wants to stay with this Tenley human and doesn't ever want to leave her? What if he decides he likes this body better? Don't you get it? That would mean we could end up doing the Grim Reaper’s job indefinitely." 

Aziraphale stepped back and looked into the demon's eyes. 

"That would never happen," Aziraphale. "First of all, I don't think Death would give up his job. He enjoys his work far too much. Second, we're both rubbish at it. Death wouldn't stand for it, _and_ our superiors certainly want the job done efficiently. We simply are not suited to this, which is abundantly clear to anyone with any speck of sense—even Gabriel knows that. Finally, we do have _other_ jobs. I've neglected my bookstore terribly. And then there's our work here on Earth: your job corrupting souls and my job at countering you." 

"Really?" Crowley snorted out a laugh. "Do you think that our jobs are that important? You said it. You were stationed on Earth to counter me. And I was sent here to create havoc. Tempt Eve with the apple, then counter your _goodness_. All we do is cancel each other out. As for the rest, do you think they even notice? All either side is doing is biding their time until the Apocalypse.

Aziraphale appeared stricken. Crowley almost wished he hadn't been so blunt with the angel. Almost. Crowley needed him to realize that this might not have been such a wonderful plan. 

"If it does end up that Death quits being the Reaper, he does have one thing going for him," Crowley added.

"Whatever is that?"

“For one, a new name: Jack the Reaper. Beats Twodicks.”

“And the other?” 

"Job security." 

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. "Quite frankly, it's because nobody _wants_ his job." 

" _Exactly_. So, Zira, do you really want to take that chance?"

\-----------------------

Death would say that before this holiday, he knew a lot about human history. He knew facts and figures. He was exceptionally good at trivia. He could play games if he liked, not that he ever enjoyed them. Or enjoyed his job for that matter, or enjoyed anything, really. He existed—that's what he did. So Crowley wasn't completely correct when he said that Death enjoyed his work. To Death, it was just his job. 

In bed next to Tenley after making love for the fourth time that day (he _is_ on a holiday), he understood what it meant to not only enjoy something, but to love doing it. 

"Would you like something to eat?" she asked. "A snack? I have some of those ginger nuts you like." 

"That would be perfect." Death never recalled thinking or saying anything was perfect until now. 

"Anything else?" she said, wrapping the sheet around herself and starting to get up. She pushed back her brown wavy hair off her forehead. 

"You know Crowley has this close friend," he said, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. "They've been friends for ages, but there's something else there." 

"When I said anything else, I was talking about a snack, but I'm more than happy to help you sort out your friends. So you think Crowley's got a crush on his friend?" 

"It's much more than a crush." 

"Isn't that sweet! He's in love with his pal, and he's too shy to admit it." 

"Crowley wouldn't appreciate being called sweet. Or shy. But he is in love with Aziraphale, and it's mutual." 

"Aziraphale? Far out! What a cool name! And you say they're gone on each other? So, you want me to help you help it along, give them a nudge." 

"Yes, that is exactly it. I'm not sure what to do." 

"Let me think on it while I dish us out some ice cream with those biscuits. I'm sure between us we can get them together."


	7. Everybody Hurts

_ Day FOUR: Late afternoon  _

"I am so happy to finally be back here. You poor dears...I've neglected you so these last few days," Aziraphale said as he lovingly dusted off his first edition Oscar Wilde collection. Aziraphale smiled as he heard Crowley's banging around in his backroom cupboards on his usual quest. 

"Where's that whiskey you stashed? I know it's here," Crowley called out to Aziraphale as he rummaged through the cabinets. It was a hard liquor kind of night. No wine tonight. "Not the cheap stuff, the Glenfiddich."

"Third cabinet, top shelf. I tucked it away behind the brandy."

Aziraphale crept up to the doorway to watch Crowley standing on his tip-toes atop a step-stool. His long arm stretched into the depths of the cabinet and retrieved with gusto the treasured whiskey from its hiding place. 

Crowley was puzzled as to who the angel was hiding it from. Him?  _ No, couldn't be. Must be one Aziraphale's little quirks.  _

As Crowley climbed down, Aziraphale plunked two tumblers on the table. 

"It's beautiful," Crowley said holding up the bottle. "Almost a shame to drink.  _ Almost _ ." He removed the stopper and poured the rich amber whiskey into the tumblers, filling them to the brim and setting the bottle between them. 

They both took their usual seats, and Crowley stretched his long legs beneath the table. He leaned back and took a long sip, closing his eyes as he did. "Fantastic!"

"Incredible, isn't it?" The angel took a burning sip and shuddered. "I don't want to jinx myself, but I haven't seen Death all day." 

"I haven't either." He opened his eyes. Aziraphale admired them—they were as rich a gold as the whiskey. "Do you think that's a good thing or a bad thing?" 

"Must mean it's going well with Tenley, which is a good thing for Death, but not such a good thing for us."

"Dear, dear," Aziraphale said, taking a sip of whiskey, then a gulp. "I suppose this job isn't so bad. Some people are actually happy to see me."

"It's fine for you to look at the bright side, but that's definitely something you should  _ never _ say to Death." Crowley swirled the tumbler between his palms. 

"It's true though. The clients say I'm not what they expected."

"Clients? No, you wouldn't be. I don't get that reaction." Crowley laughed and downed the rest of his whiskey and poured more, topping off Ariraphale's as well since he'd already downed his.

They drank together in silence. After another day of keeping Death's appointments (and more to look forward to in the evening), they needed time to breathe. 

Aziraphale decided it was too quiet. "How was your day?" Aziraphale asked. 

"People were dying to meet me."

Aziraphale laughed drunkenly, but carefully guarded his precious whiskey. He covered the top of the tumbler with his palm.

"No spill zone," he giggled.

"Wouldn't want that," Crowley agreed.

"I had one case that was most unusual," the angel said. "It was actually very heroic to witness. Her name was Milly. She saved her family from their burning home. She ran in and out, but the fumes and smoke were too much."

"So Milly was the daughter, mother, grandmother?"

"No, the family dog." 

Crowley smiled over the top of the tumbler. "You're letting dogs in Heaven now?"

"Well, yours has Hell Hounds—only seems fair that we have Angel Airedales."

"You're joking."

"Mmm. No-o. Molly was an airedale, and she really took to me. Followed me from place to place and didn't want to go to heaven. Can't say as I blame her, really. No digging bones in the clouds. I do hope someone plays fetch with her. Maybe I'll get a dog."

"You are joking,  _ and _ you're drunk."

"We both are."

Aziraphale picked up the bottle, emptying the last drops equally into their tumblers. 

"Oh, Gleny-glenyfiddich! I knew we'd just swill you all down like cheap wine," he said, bottom lip quivering a bit, then kissed the bottle. "That's why I hid you."

"This is nothing like cheap wine. I detest cheap wine. You know I love only the best." The wooden chair groaned as Crowley rocked it back on two legs. 

"Yes, you do love the best. Look at your flat. It's filled with lovely things."

"Yes, it is," Crowley said, staring directly at Aziraphale still rocking back in the chair. 

The angel didn't notice Crowley's eyes scanning him and sat the bottle down with a sigh. The angel closed his eyes, and took the last sip from his tumbler, savoring the remaining drops on his tongue. 

"He was right, you know," said Aziraphale. 

Losing his balance, Crowley's chair slammed forward with a bang. Crowley's hands smacked the table, partly because he was most definitely intoxicated and partly to make an impression on the angel. 

"Not this again. You aren't going to say it! Do NOT say it," the demon snarled. He knew he shouldn't even think this. 

"Death was correct." Aziraphale opened his eyes and shook his head sadly at Crowley. "We are in a relationship however unconventional. We may as well admit it to ourselves," he said simply. 

"We are not in a...blazes! Don't look at me like that."

"And exactly  _ how _ am I looking at you?"

"As if I stepped on a puppy, and you're about to cry or something. You know how I hate sentiment."

"Pish, posh. You do not. You just said you liked nice things in your flat. Don't think I didn't understand what you were implying. I am just sad that you're not admitting that you like me there and that we're friends. Say it."

"I don't have friends." Crowley swayed a bit in his seat. 

"But if you did?"

"If I did have a friend—and that's not saying that I do—you would be my friend." Crowley crossed his arms. "Happy?"

"I am. And..."

"And I like you at my flat."

"And..."

Crowley drunkenly rolled his eyes at the ceiling and was only interrupted from his next denial by the chime of the bell above the front door of the bookstore. Crowley couldn't help but be delighted that the bell startled Aziraphale so badly he practically fell off his seat.

"A customer? At this hour?" Aziraphale grumbled. He quickly tried to regain his composure and straightened his tie, but failed in his attempt to sit straight and looked like half-cooked noodle: all bendy in the middle and swaying this way and that. "I'll just have to tell them I'm closing.

"Hello!" called out a woman from the shop floor. 

It was clear to Crowley that the angel heard the woman rummaging around the bookstore, yet he continued to sit seesaw in his chair. Aziraphale had never understood the concept that people might actually want to buy his books and to do that he might actually have to sell them. 

"Don't you think you should..." Crowley suggested.

"Very well," the angel huffed out. His first attempt at standing landed him back in his seat, his second attempt got him up and standing. To move forward, he hoised himself toward the door with push against the table. He zigzagged into the other room like a drunken sailor in a storm. 

From the backroom, Crowley listened in on the conversation. Aziraphale was always entertaining, but even more so after too much drink.

"Hello. And what are you doing?" asked the angel. 

That greeting made even Crowley wince! Not at all Aziraphale's usual hearts and flowers greeting. While the angel hated to part with his beloved books, he usually wasn’t rude. Crowley was used to hearing Aziraphale's usual excuses as to why a customer shouldn't buy his books: these pages have fallen out or someone spilled cocoa on the cover (both from Aziraphale's repeated readings).

"Admiring your books," said the woman. 

The woman's voice sounded familiar to Crowley. He'd heard it recently. That Glenfiddich was far better than he imagined! 

"This place is far out! Oh! Is this a first edition of Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_?"

"Of course it is," Aziphale said slowly. "Almost all of these books are first editions. I do collect second and third editions. Nothing else. But I'm af-fraid I'm closed."

"But the sign says..."

"I'm closing early...It's a holiday."

"Holiday? What holiday?"

Crowley heard a book being slid back into a bookcase and some feet moving about the floor. Crowley carefully stood up and crept to the doorway to see who it was. Unfortunately it was hard to see with the room spinning. 

"It's Christopher Marlowe's birthday," said Aziraphale with a hiccup. "Goodbye. Do have a nice evening."

"But that's not why I'm here...to buy at books I mean..."

"Then why?" asked Aziraphale.

The door chimed again, but it wasn't the woman leaving—it was another customer entering.

Crowley's eyes finally focused on the man who walked through the door. In that instant he realized who the woman was.

"Not another...oh, it's _ you _ !" said Aziraphale.

"I see you've met Tenley," said Death.

With a sniff, Aziraphale locked the door to make sure no one else happened inside the bookshop.


	8. I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our angel and demon get a bit tipsy, then a bit high and fall into bed together...

_ Day FOUR: Evening  _

"Gang’s all here!" said Crowley, winding his way through the stacks of books toward Aziraphale. 

"You're both drunk," Death said, unsurprised. 

"Mmm," hummed Crowley. "I believe we are."

Crowley noticed Tenley nudging Death in the ribs and winking at him. 

"Jack thought we could stop by and visit you on our way to dinner and see if you two would like to join us."

"That depends. Where are you going?" asked Aziraphale. 

"MacDonald's. Jack has never eaten a Big Mac."

Aziraphale's mouth dropped open, appalled. " _ Really _ ."

"I know," she said eyes huge. "After living with him for two years, I didn't know that. It's crazy, man."

Crowley snickered next to Aziraphale, who couldn't contain his shudders at the thought of two double patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles and onions on a sesame seed bun. 

"I think we shall decline that offer," the angel said, bumping into Crowley. "But thank you for inviting us."

"You two are so adorable." She grinned and winked at Death. Again.

Crowley stared aghast at the woman. "Why are you really here?" he asked. "This isn't about that word again?" 

"You mean relationship?" chimed in Aziraphale, looking directly at Crowley. 

"Not again. And in front of other people."

"I really don't think you need to get them together," she turned to Jack the Reaper and grabbed his hand. "They already are. Look at them!"

"I don't need to listen to this," said Crowley.

"Just in case, I'll offer them some of my pixie dust," she whispered in Jack's ear. "They should be shagging before the night is out." She pulled a joint out of her bag and handed it to Aziraphale who looked at it like it was devil weed. "I rolled it special." 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. He heard that. Pixie dust? 

"You should get back to work," said Jack.

"Or not!" she giggled. "I suggest using the shotgun technique."

Aziaphale stared down at the joint in his hand, confused as to how a weapon might be used for smoking an illegal substance. 

"Catch you on the flip side!" she said, waving back innocently. The doorbell rang as the walked out. 

"What does that even mean; 'on the flip side'?" Aziraphale asked.

"On the other side of the record. You know, turn it over, listen to the rest of Tchaikovsky." 

"I suppose we should get back to work," Aziraphale said, slipping the joint in his breast pocket of his magician's coat and patting it. "I'll meet you at yours later."

"Yes. At mine."

\----------------

_ Day FIVE: Three A.M.  _

It was a busy night for the two working Death's detail: Over 6,000 deaths per hour do pile up when you don't collect the souls immediately. 

Aziraphale returned to Crowley’s flat exhausted and fell back into the white leather sofa. As he took off his coat, he removed the gift from Miss Sparks from the pocket. Crowley moved one of the pillows, then threw it aside, sat down beside his friend, and yawned.

"I want to thank you again for letting me stay here."

"Despite how I acted earlier, I do want you to stay as long as you wish."

"And this sofa is comfy." 

"I still think you should take my bed."

"I couldn't put you out. I know how much you love your sleep."

Crowley bit his lip. There was plenty of room in his bed. He could share, but he was afraid of where that might lead. That would be tempting Aziraphale once again. It was the part of his job that he didn't want to do. After all, tempting the angel was one of the reasons why Crowley was still on Earth. The problem was that he  _ had _ become Crowley's friend, and he no longer felt joy from leading Aziraphale astray; instead it felt like betrayal. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat and patted Crowley's knee to get his attention. He held the joint up, and it dangled awkwardly between his fingers. "What do they say, 'fire it up?'"

"Maybe I should ‘fire it up’. I am the demon." 

"Do the honors then." Aziraphale handed him the joint. 

"Watch how I do this," Crowley instructed.

When given a chance to show off, Crowley loved to indulge. He popped it between his lips and lit it up with the end of his fiery finger of fate. The end of the joint glowed red as Crowley took a long drag. He sucked the smoke down and held it.

Aziraphale watched carefully and mentally ticked off each step. He wondered when Crowley was going to breathe again or if the smoke would end up coming out his ears like in those cartoons the demon loved to watch. 

Crowley passed it to the angel, who took it haltingly.

The demon grinned as he blew out the smoke. "Just do what I did. Inhale deeply and hold it." 

The angel nodded and did as he was told. It stung his eyes and burned his nose. He choked. He had never liked cigarettes at all. The taste wasn't as bad, however, and rather sweet. Definitely better than nicotine. After feeling a bit like an arse, he blew it out. Crowley shifted closer to him as he took back the joint, pinching it between his fingers. 

"It takes a few minutes before it really affects you," Crowley said, taking another hit and passing it back. "You'll feel it soon enough."

"Mmm. They have so many words to describe this: joint, weed, doobie, hooter, mary jane, roach," the angel giggled. He sucked and held it again, face turning a little pink. His body slowly tipped toward Crowley's until their shoulders were pressed together. 

They passed it between them a few more times. Aziraphale was really interested in how white this flat was. Why was everything so white? "I think it may be affecting me..." he said, his stomach growled. 

"Ahh. Yes, I think it's starting to hit me too.”

"I'm suddenly hungry. Do you have anymore of that Chinese take-away left?"

"It's called the munchies...Yes, I do have some left. Or crisps. I have biscuits and ice cream."

"What a dilemma...I'm starved, but right at this moment, I don't think I want to move," Aziraphale said, starting to pass it back. 

"Me either," Crowley said, taking it between his fingers. He leaned more into the angel. He didn't want to get up either. Sitting close to Aziraphale was  _ nice _ .

"What was that thing that Miss Sparks told us to do with it? Shotgun? What is that?" Aziraphale asked innocently.

"Yeah, that. I put the fire end of the joint into my mouth, then blow the smoke from the joint into yours, which forces it into your lungs."

"Blow it into me? How?" He blinked. He certainly was beginning to feel a bit muzzy. 

"By putting your lips on the other end."

"Oh...do you want to? It does sound a bit  _ intimate _ . But we are friends. You did say that." 

Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale eyes grew wide as Crowley opened his mouth and wrapped his lips around the fire end of the joint and leaned forward. He gripped the angel's shoulders, pulling him in. As the angel took the tip of the joint into his mouth, their lips touched. Aziraphale was certain he was going to faint. Then Crowley blew. 

He inhaled and his body tingled, but not from the shotgun blast. It was from the touch of demon's lips. 

Seconds passed. Lips remained pressed together and neither of them wanted to part them. Aziraphale wondered if the fire would burn the demon's mouth. He wondered about fire and Crowley on numerous occasions. He certainly felt it, and he didn't even have that hot end in his mouth! He'd always wondered what this would feel like. His lips were surprisingly soft, Aziraphale thought, which made his heart pound harder.

As for Crowley, he hadn't kissed many over his time on Earth, but he'd been in lots of fires here and in Hell. That the demon held the fiery end inside his mouth with no discomfort was not a problem. What was a problem? The angel's lips. How could they be hotter than the sun?

It was Crowley who finally leaned back, his brow sweaty and lips pinker than the angel ever remembered. 

"It doesn't seem like an effective way to smoke pot, but it is rather...pleasant," the angel said.

As for Crowley, he was assessing what had just transpired. He too had thought of what it would be like to kiss an angel. Well, not any angel...this one in particular. He wasn't tingling. No, he felt something else entirely. His leather trousers were becoming entirely too snug, and his lips felt like...turning up. Damn. He was smiling. Grinning big and silly. It was the most incredible experience, and he knew it had absolutely nothing to do with the pot.

Aziraphale gave a wide yawn. "I'm sorry." He so hoped that Crowley wouldn't think he was bored because touching their lips together had been once the best experiences of his life. "It's been such a tiring day. I know that these bodies don't require sleep, but we do need to rest."

"You know if you'd like to rest somewhere other than this sofa, you can sleep in my bed. It's big and..."

The angel didn't need to think about it, but his reasons had nothing to do with getting rest. 

"I think I will take you up on that offer. A nice fluffy mattress sounds heavenly," Aziraphale chuckled, then winked at him. "But I couldn't kick you out of your bed. It seems large enough for two."

Aziraphale knew exactly what he was doing. He had to know, Crowley thought. "Alright then." 

They both took turns in the bathroom. Crowley put on his red silk pajamas and Aziraphale thought Crowley looked exceptionally handsome in them. He came out wearing his tartan flannels. 

Before Crowley pulled back the covers to climb in, he asked what side Aziraphale prefered.

"It doesn't matter," he said, smiling broadly with the "I'm happy to sleep in the bed next to you" left unspoken.

They climbed in, back facing back, leaving six inches of space between. Crowley was almost asleep when Aziraphale spoke. 

"I've been thinking about what you said regarding Jack...er...Death..." The angel rolled over, his body almost pressed against Crowley's long form. "I don't want to deny him happiness, but I certainly cannot do this job."

Crowley rolled over and faced him. "I know. I don't want to do this either, but I have to say, I missed something that didn't occur to me until, well, later. I don't think it will come to that."

In many ways, Crowley understood humans far better than Aziraphale. It came down to expectations: Aziraphale expected the best while Crowley didn't expect anything at all. The same action didn't always determine the same result. 

"What makes you believe that?"

"Think back to the night Jack died. Miss Sparks? Where was she? She wasn't there with him in the end." Crowley put his hand under his pillow and raised his head. "Why wasn't she there?"

"You're right. That is curious. If it was someone I loved, I'd be there." 

"Exactly right. Why wasn't she?"

"That is perplexing," Aziraphale said. 

"Goodnight," he said and spontaneously gave the corner of Aziraphale's mouth quick kiss. 

Aziraphale eyes lit up in surprise, then answered the demon back with a smack on the demon's lips in return.

Crowley slept well although waking a few times to having an angel snuggled up with his arms and legs wrapped around him. Although Aziraphale ripped the comforter off him more than once, Crowley decided that sleeping with someone had distinct advantages other than extra body heat. 


	9. King of Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley makes the ultimate sacrifice and shaves his pornstache.

_Day FIVE: Morning_

When Aziraphale woke, the aroma of bacon, eggs, and coffee filled the flat. He stumbled out into the kitchen and blinked. Crowley turned around, spatula in hand and smiled at the angel, whose mouth dropped open, wide in surprise. 

"How delightful! You shaved!" Aziraphale said, bouncing on his heels and clasping his hands.

"Yes." 

" _And_ you're making breakfast!"

"You're not hungry?" 

The angel took a seat at the table. Giddy and gracious, he was unable to drag his eyes from the sight before him. "Starved. It smells incredible." 

Crowley rubbed his lip, but said nothing else. He shrugged as he plated the eggs, bacon, and toast. Setting Aziraphale's serving on the table, he stood with his hands behind his back, waiting. The angel selected some bacon and took a nibble, then a big bite.

"Well?" the demon asked.

"The bacon is perfect. You remembered how I like it. And you have my favorite marmalade! Sit down, sit down before your lovely meal gets cold." 

Crowley pulled out the chair across from his friend mumbling that he'd only made this because he was hungry. _Oh, who was he trying to fool?_ thought Aziraphale. _Not even himself._ _It was nice_ —although he'd never say it aloud—he knew how Crowley hated those kinds of sentiments. Better to show appreciation in ways that the demon understood. Aziraphale licked his fingers (something he'd never do in public) to make Crowley happy. 

"Yes, very nice meal indeed. And as for the rest, I do like my demons clean-shaven." 

Crowley dropped his fork. "I didn't shave it for you, angel." 

Aziraphale smirked and wiggled in the chair. "Yes. You did." 

Before Crowley could further deny it, the room filled with a blinding light and a whizz-ZZ, a bang, and a whoos-sH! A cloud of grey smoke filled the room, concealing what was within. A moment later out stepped Death dramatically, although some of the drama was lost since Death was wearing purple turtleneck jumper, psychedelic bell bottoms with love beads. 

"What was that? We were having a perfectly lovely breakfast!" said Aziraphale, waving the smoke from his face

"A new entrance I'm perfecting. I think it has more panache, don't you?" asked Death. 

"I wouldn't say that," Crowley frowned. "First off, you got bloody soot all over my furniture! Second, it sounded like a beginner's band brass section warming up, and third, Death does not wear... that!" he pointed at his trousers. 

Truth be told, Death had changed his entrance numerous times over the eons. Collecting souls can get old. Every century or so he found it necessary to alter his routine. Although Death had considered changing his entrance for the last twenty or so years, he found the perfect heralding entrance yesterday after he'd followed Tenley to her job as a secondary school music teacher. As for his attire—he had Tenley to thank for that (and what he'd scavenged from his dresser drawers).

"I knew I'd find you both here, lazing about. Why aren't you working and out collecting souls?" Death asked. 

"What did you think would happen? You were the one who had your girlfriend give us that joint. Of course we crashed afterward." Crowley said disgustedly, running a finger across his once white leather couch and bringing it up covered black with soot. "You're cleaning this up."

Death studied them both carefully and rubbed his chin. "Nothing has changed. You're both still slackers _and_ in denial." He flicked his hand and the room was clean. "I'll forego the smoke and fog in the future. I am leaving the rest." 

The rest being a cacophony of sound. This epiphany happened as he watched Tenley teaching the young students. He told her how much he liked hearing them play. "They were only warming up," she'd said, puzzled. He still uncertain as to why warming up seemed to be undesirable—he rather liked dissonant discord. For those same reasons, despite it all, he rather liked this angel and demon. They were, in all respects, a conflicting juxtaposition of good and evil. 

Death paced the room, hands behind his back. He stood stiffly in front of the framed sketch of the Mona Lisa on the wall. 

"Clearly there is more at work here," Death said. "For hundreds of years, what has kept you together has also kept you apart. I told Tenley it wouldn't happen overnight." 

Blushing, Aziraphale ducked his head as he spread his favorite marmalade on his toast and blew the crumbs off his fingers. 

"And just why are you here other than to nag at us to get to work and to play matchmaker?" Crowley asked, eyes following Death back to the table. 

Death fell hard into the chair between them. With a long, sorrowful sigh, he stared up at the ceiling. 

"Tenley wants an open relationship." 

"She does?" said Aziraphale, blinking. "An open relationship...what's that?"

Crowley covered his mouth and laughed. 

Death's eyes turned to the table, noticing Aziraphale's plate. He picked up a piece of bacon and examined as if it were a bug. 

"Oh...I see. It has to do with sex," said the angel, squinting at Crowley. 

Death took a careful bite of the bacon, testing it. "That's very good. After last night at the MacDoogle's, I am leery of eating anything. The aftermath was worse than that of the Black Death." 

"I completely understand," Aziraphale said. "If you'd like a list of nice establishments where the food is superb—or won't give you indigestion or other problems—do ask me first." 

"I'll do that." 

"Alright," Aziraphale said, turning in his seat to face Death, "tell us why this 'open relationship' is a problem with Miss Sparks?" 

"Why?" Death said, dumbfounded. "You know why! I don't want anyone else to _know_ her, that's why." 

"That doesn’t sound very neighborly," Aziraphale said. 

"He means know in the biblical sense," Crowley smirked. 

"I _know_ that," Aziraphale said, giggling. "Oh! I made a sex pun!" 

Crowley crossed his arms and shook his head, thinking that they shouldn't be helping Death at all with this problem because this issue was _exactly_ what they needed: for Death to sour on the whole ‘being human’ experience. Well, that and McDonalds. 

"I hate to tell you this, Death, but she's not innocent," said Crowley. "Women are free to do what they want with their bodies. A whole sexual revolution has happened, what with birth control pills, open marriages, and free love." 

"I followed her to work yesterday," Death explained. "She didn't mind that, but later this morning I followed her again, and...she met this man. His name is John Andrew Hollings, and he lives in Soho."

"And why do we need to know this?" Crowley asked. 

"I've come to ask you a favor." 

It was exactly as Crowley suspected. Death was emotionally compromised and wanted to stay with Miss Sparks. 

"A favor? We're already collecting souls so you can have a holiday," Aziraphale pouted. 

"He's right. I think we've helped you sufficiently," Crowley said. 

"I need another favor. I want the angel to smite John Andrew Holling of 28 Carlisle Street, London." 

"B-but I'm not one of those angels who smites people!" Aziraphale gaped at him.

"You're an angel. You can smite people. I've seen Michael do it, _and_ Gabriel. You can do it."

Aziraphale was shaking his head, but Crowley knew that expression. The angel was softening. He might do it. For love, he might. Crowley could not allow it. 

"What has this bloke done to you except have sex with Miss Sparks?" Crowley demanded.

"I'd say that was enough," Death said, crossing his arms and pinning them with the Death Stare like insects to a collector's board.

This Stare was well-known to those in both Heaven and Hell. While the Stare was not as effective with actual eyes, Death still had the basic gaping-orbs-of-annihilation down pat even with his new bedroom baby-blues. It was enough to make Aziraphale choke on his eggs and to make Crowley scoot back three inches in his chair. 

"Hardly enough," Crowley finally said. "Jack must have already known this." 

"He didn't like the idea and neither do I. It's why Jack broke up with her. Although they reconciled after he became ill, Jack still could not accept it." 

"And you're just remembering this now?" Crowley asked. 

"It's not like I jumped inside him and had all his memories at the tip of my tongue!" Death said indignantly. "I have to call them up and dig through all these other messy thoughts just to find the information I'm looking for. Most of the time, it's not worth the bother." 

"Certainly you realize that me smiting him isn't the answer," Aziraphale said. "If it's not this John Hollings, it would be someone else. If Jack on his deathbed didn't change her, she's not going to. That means it must be you who changes." 

From behind him, Crowley was shaking his head. _No, no, no!_

"Or move on," Crowley blurted out. "You're only going to be in that body for two more days. Why waste it on this woman? Have some fun." 

"I am not wasting it. I want her with me. Always." 

"She's human. She can't be with you, always..."

"Then I stay." Death looked them both. "I was wrong to think I was irreplaceable. Other than being loafers, you've done my job adequately and without major mishap." 

"Oh, no," Crowley moaned. 

\-----------------

_Day FIVE: Later the Same Morning_

"I think we are fucked," said Crowley. "Why did you have to tell Death that there might be another way. There is no other way. She won't change. And Death? He'll never change. But what did you go and do? You gave Death hope. Why would you do such a thing?" 

"Everyone needs hope, even Death." Aziraphale said, staring into space and ignoring the demon's ranting. 

"No. What did that Emily woman write? Hope is a thing with feathers." 

"We have feathers." 

"Stop. Just stop." Crowley stomped around the room. "I don't want to do Death's job! I might as well be in Hell."

"It's not going to come to that—he'll tire of all this. He enjoys what he does. I'm more worried about the other..."

"What other?" 

Aziraphale hesitated. "He wants us to have sex. What is he thinking? As if angels even have sex!"

"They don't?" Crowley scoffed. 

"I've never heard of such a thing."

"Of course you haven't, angel, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. I bet Gabriel is up there getting his mighty horn blown right now by..."

"Crowley! You mustn't say such things." The angel's head shot up and searched above as if Gabriel would rain down thunderbolts. 

"It's true. You think there's no sex in Heaven?" Crowley smirked. 

"You didn't think there were dogs there," the angel shot back. 

"Maybe if we distracted Death. Took him somewhere fun." 

"Entertain Death. And what happens to all the souls while we’re doing this?" 

"You already know how irrelevant time is. Just slow it to do our work like we usually do. It will get done."

"What we need is an ineffable plan,” Aziraphale said, finishing off his toast. 

"No, what we need to do is be shite at Death's job."


	10. Fire and Rain

_ Day FIVE Evening _

The fog was thick and traffic was heavy. Horns honked, tires screeched. Amid it all, Death made his entrance with a crash and a bang. Crowley and Aziraphale were both wondering what took him so long. 

"I see you didn't take my advice," said Crowley, frowning at Death's paisley bell-bottom trousers and chunky sky-blue jumper. 

"I AM GETTING COMPLAINTS," Death said. His extra-added fog rolled around him. He shook himself, and the Jack personae returned. "Gabriel told me you took ten colonies of ants to Heaven."

"They needed somewhere to go...” said Aziraphale. He innocently pulled his magician's coat tighter around him. "Those little fellows work so hard. Shouldn't they have some sort of reward?"

"And the locusts?" asked Death.

"It's a clean insect. There should be no problems," Aziraphale smiled politely. "I know John the Baptist will welcome them."

"What about the butterflies in Hell?" Death asked.

Aziraphale mouth opened wide before slapping his hand over it to cover a laugh. 

"And kittens and bunnies?" Death continued. "Hastur said he wants to keep them, but we do have certain standards to uphold." 

Aziraphale's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Hastur! Those poor creatures. Crowley, what have you done?" 

"Nah," said Crowley. "Turns out Hastur has a soft spot for kittens."

"As long as you didn't put bunnies and kittens in eternal peril, I guess it's alright," Aziraphale said.

“You also delivered the wrong clients to the wrong place." Death clenched his fists. 

"I don't see why we have to take the blame for that," Aziraphale said. "After all, the purpose for Pearly Gates is to keep out undesirables."

"As for Hell...the more, the un-merrier," said Crowley.

"You didn't?" Aziraphale said, shocked. "You didn't take people who were supposed to go to Heaven into Hell?"

"I didn't. I really didn't," Crowley said. "But there was this annoying fellow—he kept singing 'It's a Small, Small World,' and repeating he wanted Heaven to be Disneyland. I was this close to taking him downstairs. Even demons can resist temptation."

"At least this one can," Aziraphale said to Death as if it would make it alright.

"I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING." 

Aziraphale and Crowley eyes locked. 

"I know what you're doing," Death restated. He thrust his hands into his paisley hiphuggers, "and you don't have to do it. As nice as love felt and as wonderful as sex is, after this last week, I have a true appreciation of what Hell is like."

Death gaze turned to steel as he looked from Crowley to Aziraphale. "That is why I am taking time from my holiday to pay you back."

"Thank you?" Aziraphale chirped out, skeptically.

"In the end, you will not thank me.”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, who was squinting behind his aviator glasses. “Stop talking to me like I talk to my houseplants when they shed leaves on my carpet.” 

"Is this about us or about Miss Sparks?" asked the angel carefully. "You aren't planning on taking that poor girl with you? Why, she'd have to die to join you." 

"That is up to Miss Sparks," said Death. "Free Will and all of that. The offer is on the table. No, I was referring to the both of you. I'm making sure you suffer as much as I have. I am no longer suggesting you two come together. No need to do that, as Tenley pointed out to me: it's inevitable. You already love each other. Unrequited love is a painful thing, but requited? Just you both wait and see what that's like! You shall most certainly suffer the pangs of Hell."

"That's the Death I know!" Crowley sang out.

"Crowley! Don't encourage him! I don't find any of this reassuring. Whatever happened to the Death that embraced 'All you need is love'? I liked him," Aziraphale said.

“ _Love, Love, Love_? That Death was much more pragmatic. The Death you now see before you does have theme song, but it's 'Tracks of my Tears'."

"Do you really think Miss Sparks would go with you, knowing who you are?" Aziraphale asked.

"She does. I told her I was Death last night."

"And she believed you?" Crowley choked out a laugh.

"I showed her what I was. Surprisingly, she said, ' _ I can dig it. _ '"

Crowley raised his eyebrows.  _ He knew it! She has to be Fae _ , he thought, no human would react like that. But he kept it to himself. Somethings were best left unsaid.

"I still have two days of holiday, and I intend to make the best of them. No more cocking up my job. Back to collecting souls. NOW."

Death disappeared, leaving behind an angry black fog.

\--------------

_ Day SIX Morning _

"I don't like this job," Crowley grumbled. 

"So you've told me countless times over the last few days. You've also said the same about working for the Dukes of Hell over the last five milliennia. I do believe you have an aversion to any job in general."

Fragments of a jet plane were scattered around the countryside. A large portion of the passenger compartment was intact. They’d taken forty-eight souls to their proper destinations, the survivors remaining on Earth. He looked over at Crowley and sighed. 

"I do admit that this was stressful," said Aziraphale. "But we did agree to help Death."

“You’re correct. I do hate work. It's is so...tedious. We should go back to mine. Take a nap before we take Death to the country."

"We're taking the Bentley?” said Aziraphale, cringing. 

"Indubitably."

"The only thing I'll really miss is being able to snap from one place to another instantly."

"All this just because I wanted disco ended."

"Whatever are you talking about? Disco?" Aziraphale said. 

"I should have known, you can't stop disco." Then Crowley snapped his fingers. 

After long, hard night of collecting souls, Aziraphale had to agree with Crowley that a nap would be good. Except the angel wasn't resting. His eyes were locked on the stark-white ceiling of Crowley's bedroom, thinking. Although his breathing was even and steady, the demon seemed to be doing the same. 

So many years, centuries, Aziraphale looked and watched and waited. Was it possible that Death was right? That this could happen between them? 

The rustling of the sheet next him jostled Aziraphale from his thoughts about Crowley, and what could be between them. Why couldn't he reach out his hand? It was only but inches. He could feel the demon's heat next to him. 

It was Crowley's hand that took the chance. He placed it on top of the angel's. Aziraphale's chest heaved as he clutched the demon's fingers. He turned his head to see Crowley's golden eyes travel from the angel's eyes to his lips. 

Crowley rolled closer, ending up a hair away, lips hovering near the angel's. So near yet at a standstill. Heat radiated between them, but neither dared to make that final, last move to press their lips together. It was the wine they'd shared that knew no piety. The wine took pleasure in how it was shared, calling to them both to that ineffable kiss. 

When their lips did touch, it was big and open. It was impatient. It was tangled limbs and teeth clashing. It was perfection. When they parted, Aziraphale beamed. A literal light came from within him. 

"Do you always shine like that after being kissed?" Crowley said. The shocking brightness reminded the demon of the burst of light from his flaming sword.

"How should I know? This is the first time."

"If you do that after only one kiss, would you go supernova if we..."

"I don't know," Aziraphale said. "Let's begin with this."

Their lips touched again. This time it wasn't the artless passion and fire from the first. Instead when Crowley kissed the angel, his lips sought to mend every hurt, every unkindness ever done to the angel. He sought to heal every sadness, and the joy of light filled the room. 


	11. Seasons in the Sun

_ Day SIX: Afternoon _

It is said that Hell has the best musicians. That is not completely true. The best lived in Rock n' Roll Heaven; however, the Hell band was decent for a cover group. They had a good bass player, an adequate drummer, and the band's playlist composed of jingles and tunes that get stuck in your head. The band played at all of Hell's high celebrations: thus Crowley's intense dislike for "It's a Small World" and "Kung Fu Fighting." 

As Crowley's Bentley groaned to life, Aziraphale popped in one of his favorite cassettes, Chopin's "Johnny B. Goode," which was appropriately a Rock 'n Roll Heaven tune. He fiddled with the volume knob as the vintage car roared into reverse. Aziraphale grabbed the dashboard as the car careened down Brook Street toward Death's flat. 

Crowley appeared oblivious to his passenger's distress as he weaved in and out of traffic, tapping the steering wheel in time to "Go, go, go Johnny go!"

Crowley, however,  _ was _ keenly aware of Aziraphale, monitoring the angel from the corner of his eye. The angel nervously continued to play with the dials on the sound system and fidgeted as if he were a school girl on his first date. Crowley smiled to himself when Aziraphale turned off the cassette and tuned in Radio 4's _ Just a Minute _ . 

Crowley couldn't help himself and continued to intentionally take sharp corners, propelling Aziraphale into him each time. With each slide into Crowley, he became more and more tempted to kiss the blush from the angel's cheeks. 

"Do you think a ride in the country is really the place to take Death?" Crowley asked. "There's no excitement, only hills and trees and grass. Lots of grass."

"After his first week in London, I think he'd prefer some solitude," said Aziraphale. "Surrey Hills is perfect." 

"If you're going to keep fiddling with that, at least tune it to music. Good music. There. That's better, a love song!  _ 'Oh-h, I love, oh-h, my love. Only my love does it good to-oo-oo-oo me, _ " Crowley sang along. "My, my. You really  _ are _ blushing brightly."

" _ I am not _ ."

"Are so. And I bet I can make you blush as brighter. As a beacon!" Crowley said. "Oh, Surrey Hills? Hmmm. There wouldn't be any other reason you'd want to visit there? Maybe a walk down memory lane?" Crowley smiled at him like a snake.

Aziraphale covered his face with his hands. 

"What year was that?" Crowley taunted and wagged his eyebrows. "I was swimming in the River Wey in the altogether when I looked up and what did I see? An angel spying at me from behind a tree."

"Please pay attention to the road! You're driving like some sort of destroying angel. Must you take so many risks?"

"I'm a demon. And that's what I do: take risks, tempt angels..."

The car screeched to a halt in front of Death's apartment. 

"If you'd like to see me naked again, all you need do is ask," Crowley smirked as Death climbed into the back seat.

"Love is a battlefield," Death grumbled. "Someone should write a song with that title."

"I like it," Crowley said. "I'll put it on my 'to do' list and make sure it happens."

"A bit of a spat with Miss Sparks?" Aziraphale inquired. 

"Attila the Hun was fortunate," said Death, slamming the door shut. "He died of a nosebleed on his wedding night. Don't leave yet. Tenley is coming. She'll be out in moment." 

"I thought she couldn't come?" Aziraphale said, puzzled. "And I also thought you wanted to relax?"

"She wants us to talk to both of you. We may have a solution for  _ our  _ problem." Death threw his head back against the Bentley's black leather interior and closed his eyes. 

"It's not  _ our _ problem," Crowley groused. "It's yours. After tomorrow, I'm done with this job and so is Aziraphale."

This was not going at all like the angel had planned. He wanted a nice, quiet day in the country. Giving the demon a stern look, he slapped him on the thigh.

"Behave!" Aziraphale hissed to him under his breath. His slap didn't have the desired effect. Instead, Crowley brushed his hand across his thigh where the angel smacked him and grinned at the angel lasciviously. 

Aziraphale quickly turned around in his seat to talk to Death. 

_Oh, no_ thought Crowley and he grimaced. Aziraphale had that look on his face again—that glow—the one where he was about to try to correct some wrong he perceived in the universe. The list was endless: the lonely meter maid, the little lost girl with the skinned knee, and Crowley's broken toaster. 

"I packed lunch," the angel blurted out. 

"No you didn't," Crowley said. "You had Ralphaldo at The Ritz pack it." Crowley knew had to stop Aziraphale. While Death's love life might be added to Aziraphale's long list of fix-its, they might end up collecting souls until Armegedon.

"I ordered it," said Aziraphale. "It's the same."

"You better have deviled eggs," Crowley said. 

"Of course I have deviled eggs, AND Triple smoked salmon terrine, a nice pork pie, a variety of cheeses, some bite sized brownies, and a bottle of sparkling wine."

"It looks like rain," Death added, staring out the window. 

"I'll make sure it doesn't," Aziraphale said. "Oh, there's Tenley."

Dressed in worn Levis, a faded tie-dye t-shirt, and leather sandals, she waved brightly at them before opening the door and climbing into the backseat next to Death. She gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

Crowley sped off. 

"Isn't this sweet?" she said, brushing the hair from her face. "Your help-mates here to cheer you up my sweetie, Mr Gloom and Doom. But I suppose after eons of collecting souls one might get jaded."

"Just who are you, really?" Crowley asked, looking into his rear view mirror. 

"You know," she giggled. 

"She's a fairy! I knew it," Crowley said, slamming on the brakes and pulling to the kerb. "Fairies are trouble. Get out!"

"Crowley! Stop it," Aziraphale said. "Don't get out. He didn't mean it."

"Yes I did! They play tricks on you. Why, why, why are you even here? You knew, didn't you? You planned all this. You knew Death was going to be in Jack's body."

"I knew no such thing," Tenley said. "It was a fortunate accident."

"I don't believe in fortunate accidents," Crowley said, turning to Aziraphale. "And you shouldn't either."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Drive," he said. 

"DRIVE," ordered Death.

"Yes, drive please," added Tenley.

Crowley hated to, but it looked like he was outnumbered. He revved the Bentley, but he took his time. Destination: Surrey countryside. Or Hell. It might end up being the same. 

"So, you have some sort of solution," said Crowley. "Coming from a fairy, it would probably be completely contrived and filled with horrific ramifications."

"At least give her a chance to tell us her plan," Aziraphale said.

Crowley sighed. They might as well hear it so that when they got to the picnic Crowley could put his own plan into motion. Get Aziraphale alone and under a large shady tree with the wine and a blanket.

"Very well," said Crowley. 

Tenley cleared her throat and all eyes turned her. 

"It's simple," she said. "Death can easily enter other people's forms upon Death. There's no reason he can't borrow a few choice bodies."

"Choice bodies?" Aziraphale echoed, his eyes huge. 

Crowley burst out laughing. "This is perfect. It's better than an open relationship! You can have anyone. Well, anyone with Death inside that body. You could have Elvis."

"This isn't right!" Aziraphale said, aghast.

"No, but it's brilliant," said Crowley. "I take back all I said about you."

"I do too," said Aziraphale. He gave the two in the back seat a look of disgust. "And you're fine with all this?"

Death sat there, staring ahead, processing. "Yes, I believe I am."

\----------------

"This looks like a quiet spot," Aziraphale said. He carried the basket and pointed to some old maples and English oaks near the river. 

"Quiet? I hear birds. I hear water running. And...is that laughter?" said Death.

"It's children playing," said Tenley. 

Death rolled his eyes. "Playing? Where are they?"

"They're down river," said Aziraphale. "They won't come over here. The bank is too steep for them to swim in this spot." 

Death watched with his arms crossed as Crowley helped Aziraphale spread out a blanket for them to sit on. Tenley pulled Death near the riverbank.

"I think we should give them some privacy," she whispered to him. 

"We're going for a walk down the bank to work up an appetite," she called over her shoulder, pulling Death downstream.

Aziraphale watched them walk away. "You shouldn't encourage them. Walking! I doubt that's how they plan to work up an appetite."

Crowley sat down on the blanket. "Don't look that way. We can eat. You never need to work up an appetite. Um, then we can give them some privacy when they come back."

Aziraphale sat down next to him and reached around him into the basket and lifted the lid. Crowley leaned in closer, sending a shudder through the angel. He rested his hand on Aziraphale's back as he unwrapped the deviled eggs and popped one into his mouth. 

"Delicious."

Aziraphale watched his mouth as he chewed. Crowley grinned and slowly licked his fingers afterward. He reached up and brushed one of those fingers across Aziraphale's bottom lip.

With a sudden whoosh, Aziraphale swooped in and kissed him, getting delectable moans in return from deep inside the demon's chest. 

He shouldn't be surprised at Crowley's reaction. As their lips parted, Crowley ducked his head to hide his shy smile, but Aziraphale saw it. His heart fluttered to see the heat in the demon's cheeks. He gazed over Crowley's face. His eyebrows twitched anxiously. 

He gently caressed Crowley's face, turned his head, and kissed him again. His tongue stroked Crowley's. He loved hearing Crowley murmured nonsense into his mouth, encouraging the angel. 

They spread out on the blanket, drenched in each other's mouths. Food forgotten, they devoured each other. After all those centuries of holding back, they basked in the relief that they no longer had to.

From behind the bushes, Death and Miss Spark watched. 

"See how happy they both look," Tenley whispered.

"You are right. They are in love," Death whispered back. "Love hurts. I am satisfied. We have achieved the desired outcome. They shall both suffer."

Crowley and Aziraphale blundered apart, breathless upon hearing the two conspirators. Despite them, they spend the rest of the afternoon smiling and catching each other's soft glances. 

\---------

_ Day SIX: Evening _

As they stepped into his flat, Crowley switched on the lights. Although he never really needed them, he knew that Aziraphale appreciated them. 

Aziraphale set the empty picnic basket on the table. "I had a wonderful time today."

Crowley stepped up to Aziraphale and dropped his head a little, just enough to find the angel's mouth. Crowley felt the angel's fingertips touch his shirt buttons. He felt the hesitation in those hands until Crowley moaned. Then the fingers fumbled against the shirt—the angel winning his struggle and opening Crowley's shirt. 

Anticipation tumbled through Crowley's veins as he felt his hands slip around his waist. His breathing quickened as hands moved to his trousers. 

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale swallowed and lifted his chin, nodding. "You shaved for me." He took a half step backward to be able to look up into Crowley's face.

"You ordered deviled eggs for me." Crowley long arms stretched out, open and waiting for him.

"You think it might be love?" the angel giggled and stepped into his arms.

"I'm sure it is." He bowed his head down and lightly kissed Aziraphale's lips. 

"Please..." Aziraphale grasped his hand and pulled him to Crowley's bedroom.


	12. The Show Must Go On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death’s Holiday is over but for our favorite angel and demon, "it’s only just begun" (sorry for another bad 70s song title).

_Day SIX: Evening_

In the dark of the bedroom, Crowley saw the beauty of the angel: how Aziraphale's undershirt clung to his chest; how the sandy, ruffled hair on his head, stood up; how his mouth shaped silent words of want.

Crowley lifted his hands and stroked down Aziraphale arms to his wrists then back up again to his shoulders. He removed his shirt, his trousers, each article of clothing until the angel was bare and perfect on his bed before him.

"You're so soft," he whispered. He slipped his fingers up behind Aziraphale's neck and let his thumb trace up the angel's neck and around his ears.

As he pressed into Aziraphale, he felt the angel shudder against him. 

"I'd like some light," Aziraphale said softly.

With a nod, Crowley made up his mind: one-hundred candles appeared, one-hundred candles flickered to life. 

"Oh, Crowley!"

The dancing flames gave a golden glow to angel's creamy skin, highlighting the soft curves of his body. Crowley touched those smooth lines: his limbs, his chest, his stomach. Crowley's fingers learned how the angel's once tense muscles relaxed under each caress, each touch. 

Crowley braced his hand against the mattress over a smiling Aziraphale and kissed him.

The angel was completely relaxed except for, well, one part of the angel. His cock stood straight out—thick, pink, and proud. His foreskin pulled back slightly, exposing its delicate glans. Aziraphale nodded encouragingly as Crowley touched him there. Happily it greeted Crowley's waiting hand, springing into it.

The angel's breath caught in his throat as Crowley pumped his cock. Crowley thrilled at how it turned to iron in his grip. 

Gasps or disbelief and delight filled the room. In a sudden burst of joy and trust, Aziraphale's wings unfurled. 

His wings filled the bed and well beyond it. To Crowley, the way Aziraphale displayed his plumage felt like a courting ritual. He fluttered his feathers and the long, pointed tips quivered. 

There was no indulgence greater for Crowley then to see the span of Aziraphale wings and to feel his downy feathers. Crowley's breath became quick, and he answered by opening his own wings. He heard Aziraphale's soft, throaty coos of pleasure as he reached out and touched them. 

Wings and hands caressed, Crowley brushing his face across the angel's wings, indulging in the texture with a shivering sigh. Aziraphale, equally enamored with Crowley's dark wings, preened them with his nimble fingers. With great care, he gently tucked and aligned them. The angel's touch brought a dark blush of arousal and deep moans of desire to the demon. 

Crowley gasped in surprise and pleasure as Aziraphale kissed him, sweeping his tongue over his lips, then circling inside his mouth. Crowley's toes curled as he rubbed his feet up the angel's shins.

They become an exquisite tangle, and Crowley approved of the chaos. He pulled up on to his knees and looked down at Aziraphale.

"I'm yours," Crowley said. "I've always been yours."

Aziraphale's eyes misted, and his knees fell apart, opening for him and his face was just as open and innocent.

"No, I want..." His face darkened, uncertain and a bit embarrassed to speak. 

"Yes," concern in Aziraphale's voice.

"I want you to be the one..." Crowley bit his lip. 

"...who enters you," Aziraphale finished for him. 

Crowley nodded without breaking the angel's gaze. The angel was always the brave one, the one to speak out even in the face of unspeakable terrors (such as against Beelzebub's invention of the Judas Cradle, and Michael's rants on his bad hair days). 

"Slowly," Aziraphale said. "Let your arms and wings keep you right."

Crowley straddled him, steadying himself as instructed with his knees on either side of Aziraphale's hips. 

Aziraphale guided his cock with his hand as Crowley lowered himself down with his weight on one hand with his wings balancing him. With his other hand, he braced himself on the angel's hip. Crowley met fear and desire as he pushed down. He was so hard. Sweat beaded on his brow as waves of pleasure shook him as he slid the cock deeper and deeper. 

"Slower," Aziraphale said, grasping the demon's cock and stroking it. "I don't want to hurt you."

"But what if I want that? What if I like it?" asked Crowley, the last of his words slurring into a shapeless moan. 

He rolled his hips in an effort fit Aziraphale completely inside. 

As Crowley dropped the final inch down into his lap, the angel let his hands touch where wings and bare skin met. 

"Oh..." Crowley gasped and began to rock into Aziraphale. With the angel fisting him, pleasure overtook any pain that rippled through him. He let Aziraphale lift him with his hips and fluttering wings. 

"You are brilliant, simply brilliant," Crowley moaned, grinding himself down on Aziraphale's cock. 

A white wing brushed Crowley's face, and he looked down into the angel's eyes. Why had it taken them this long to realize? 

Aziraphale smiled. 

Crowley's orgasm swelled within him—his wings shuddered. He spilled over the angel's fingers, tummy, and his own sheets. 

Smooth, long, and slow, Aziraphale's hips rocked up into Crowley's heat. He felt the warmth of the angel fill him. As the heat swelled inside Crowley, the angel's wings curved around him, pulling Crowley close. Once on Aziraphale's chest, Crowley hugged him tightly. He didn't realize at first that he was sobbing, "Zira, Zira." All he knew was that he didn't ever want to let go. He held Aziraphale tight and let the angel brush the tears from his face.

Afterward, Aziraphale tangled his fingers in Crowley's hair. "I have you," he said. "I have you."

"Death is wrong," Crowley whispered to him. "Love isn't Hell." 

_\----------------_

_Day SEVEN: Morning_

Aziraphale woke up to the sun and an empty bed. Dread filled Aziraphale. In Crowley's place on the pillow rested a note. From Crowley. What if he realized this was all a mistake? What if he'd left? Aziraphale reasoned that Crowley would be safer without him, yet he hoped maybe...maybe they go make a go of it. Maybe they could...

"Crowley?" he called out. Aziraphale cursed his eyes. He needed to read the note despite how anxious it made him feel. It took him a moment to fumble on the nightstand to find his spectacles. His mind raced. What had he written? Was this a note goodbye?

He put on his glasses and gazed over it. 

He gasped. A love poem! Crowley had written him a love poem! 

His eyes filled with tears as he read:

> Love is neither Heaven, nor Hell.  
>  Nor purgatory. Rather, we dwell  
>  In what this place is.  
>  Our hearts, our minds,  
>  This Earth,  
>  Our worth. 
> 
> Our Love is neither hot, nor cold.  
>  Nor fire, nor water. Never old.  
>  Earth is what we divine.  
>  Not yours or mine  
>  Or any Powers.  
>  Only Ours.
> 
> So no matter what may befall  
>  Our Love will last through it all.  
>  Nothing Below or Above.  
>  Will sever Our love.  
>  Love is its Own  
>  Realm alone.  
>  Always Ours.

He wiped his nose. He raised his head to see Crowley standing in the doorway.

"Death just left," Crowley said, swallowing hard as he stared at the note in Aziraphale's hand. "He said we could have the last day off."

"Tenley?" Aziraphale sniffled and wiped his nose.

"Yes. She went with him."

Aziraphale smiled down at the love poem, but shook his head. "I'm afraid for you. What if they do find out about us?"

"I rather think they already know and are waiting for the same thing to happen as what Death assumed," Crowley said. "That our love for each other is a punishment." 

Crowley remained in the doorway, leaning against the frame for support, his hands twitching nervously at his sides.

"Look how long we suffered for it already. I know what you've done all these years to protect me." Crowley sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "I think we've been wrong in our assumptions. They're more worried that we'd conspire together than love each other. Keeping what we feel for each other inside may have kept us safe at some point, but we can't lose that part of us anymore." Crowley stepped slowly toward the bed.

"I don't know what to say to that," said Aziraphale. "I don't want to leave you."

"Then don't leave me. I'd like you to stay with me." Crowley threw his arms out and took three more steps forward. 

Aziraphale eyes remained on Crowley. "If something were to happen to you, I couldn't bear it."

"I can't promise you that. ‘It's too late’ already has happened. I don't want to take it back. In fact, I want _something_ more to happen," Crowley said. 

With a devilish grin, he nodded to the love poem in the angel's hand. "We love each other. Stay here in my flat on this Earth with me."

"That's the most romantic thing you've ever said... or written." He waved the poem. 

"It's the only romantic thing I've ever said or written," Crowley said, taking the last step up to the bed. He slipped inside and snuggled to his angel.

"Not the only." Aziraphale smiled. "So, so many times, you showed. Gestures, deeds. You saved my life more than once. I've always known."

"I've always known too. It's in your face. You're rubbish at hiding your feelings." He reached around Aziraphale's shoulders and hugged him. 

"I shall keep this for all eternity," Aziraphale said. He waved the note above his head. "My first love poem. I think I should try my hand and write a few to you. I can do better than that McCartney person. _My love does it good_..."

Crowley pressed his against forehead to Aziraphale's. "My love..." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this, it was the first dip of my toe into writing Good Omens. Although I read the wondrous life-changing book almost 20 years ago, I’d never written a thing in the genre. Although I have read a few really excellent fanfics in GO, I never pushed myself to do it. Then the series. And the actors they cast are, well, perfect for Aziraphale and Crowley. 
> 
> Before I finished writing the WIP, I’d found myself writing another six short pieces and I even began work on another WIP for Big Bang.  
> \------------------
> 
> And a note on the poem. It’s mine. I love writing poetry, and this story gave me the opportunity.


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